


A  Different  Path

by queenofroses12



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brothers, Family, For Want of a Nail, Gen, Horror, Lovecraftian Monster(s), Major Illness, Prophetic Visions, Psychic Abilities, Supernatural Elements, Supernatural Illnesses, Visions in dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:22:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 22,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21666637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofroses12/pseuds/queenofroses12
Summary: What  if,  at  Ashford  Meadow,  Egg  had  run  to  Baelor  instead  of  Dunk  for  help?  What  does  that  change?  What  exactly  was  the  Great  Spring  Sickness  and  what  was  Bloodraven's  role  in  it? Exploring  a  world  where  a  boy's rapid  choice  changed  the  course  of  history,  For  better  or  for  worse. Read  and  Review. ( Same work  published  by me  in  fanfiction.net  under  username  Diana  Huntress)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 21





	1. The  Choice  Made

Aerion was shouting incoherently by this point, and Egg knew he would soon be completely out of control. The puppeteer girl was attempting to explain or apologize, probably even she wasn't sure which. It would do no good, not with Aerion in this temper. The boy glanced around desperately. If any of the kingsguard were around…no, only Aerion's men, with no reason to obey the younger prince. That was, if they even recognized him.

Aegon paused for an instant, wondering which way to turn, but custom won over instinct and he did exactly what he and Aemon generally did when faced with trouble. He ran to his uncle. The young prince had no idea what he had averted and what he would bring about by that decision. It was just as well that he didn't. As Daeron would no doubt agree, our morrows could be, but should not be, foretold.

The castle was better guarded than it had been before the royal party had arrived, but all the same, none of the guards paid much attention to the little bald boy slipping through the gates. Egg, not really talented at thinking things through, had not considered how he would get to wherever his uncle was, but fortunately he didn't have to worry.

Valarr was worried about his stallion which he was certain, had hurt itself in his last joust of the day, despite the master of stables assuring him that it was perfectly fine. He had been fretting about it all through dinner, and as soon as it was over, requested he be allowed to go check on the horse once more. Baelor wouldn't allow him to leave immediately like that, it would hardly be polite, but he finally agreed they could both go and check on it later. Which was why they were in the castleyard when Egg came rushing in, instead of in their rooms within.

"A knight should not love his horse."Baelor commented, "More than a few would die beneath you, either in tourneys or real battles"

Valarr nodded, somewhat shamefaced. All the same, he was glad he had come and made sure the stallion was alright.

"I know, father. It's just…"

Baelor smiled. Valarr would need to become a little less soft, but there was time enough for the boy to grow up. And at his age, better too soft than too harsh, he supposed, remembering Aerion. He would need to speak to Maekar about him. (Certainly not a conversation he was looking forward to)

Egg could see his uncle and cousin a few feet away, but there were too many guardsmen pressing around for him to get near. He settled for yelling at the top of his voice "Uncle Baelor! Valarr!"

Heads turned, most of the men looking flabbergasted at the cheeky boy, but his kinsmen had recognized Egg's voice, though not his appearance.

"Aegon?"

"What in seven hells are you doing here?"

"Where is Daeron? What happened to you?"

Egg didn't bother to explain, he was in plenty deep trouble already. Aerion may well be killing the puppeteers by now.

" Daeron is drunk at an inn, but Aerion is here! He is killing those puppeteers!"

"What?"

…

Dunk had heard the screams and shouts while at Fossway's tent, but at first he hadn't connected it with Tanselle. It seemed more like some drunk knights or lordlings starting a quarrel, and it was mere curiosity that had drawn him to the crowd.

"No" he muttered when he saw what was happening.

Tanselle was pleading with Aerion who held her in an iron grip, twisting her hand cruelly. Dunk would later admit that the old man was right about him, he was as thick as a castle wall. He near as anything charged forward to defend Tanselle, and would have done so (no doubt forfeiting his head or at the least his hands) if someone else hadn't gotten there first.

It was dark in the grounds and for a moment Dunk thought one of the Dornishmen with Tanselle had been reckless enough to come to her defense. Aerion no doubt thought the same, for he swung around with a furious snarl at the man who had grabbed his hand, pulling him away none too gently from the girl. The snarl died on his lips as he realized who he was face to face with.

"Explain yourself, Aerion"

Aerion did manage an explanation of sorts, while around the Targaryens men-at-arms helped the puppeteers put things in order and made sure none of them was really hurt that bad.( Dunk noticed some of the attentive guards were exactly the ones who were trashing the equipment to begin with).

"…so I had to do it, it was practically treason!"

Prince Baelor looked as if he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing.

"Let me get this straight. These puppeteers were acting out the tale of Ser Serwyn and the Mirror Shield. That, according to you, is an act of treason?"

Aerion nodded.

"They showed a dragon being slain!"

"Because that is how the tale ends. "

It seemed to Dunk that the prince had to make a conscious effort to stop himself from adding 'you halfwit'.

Aerion said something more, about hidden calls to rebellion and plenty of things that made even lesser sense, but prince Baelor had clearly had enough. He shut his nephew up with a glare.

"You have made enough of a fool of yourself. Apologize"

Dunk, watching with glee, wondered whether the princeling was going to give in. He was.

"I apologize, Your Grace"

"Not to me. Apologize to them"

That apparently was beyond what the boy was prepared to do.

"A dragon apologizing to…to..smallfolk?"

He evidently meant a more insulting term than smallfolk, but dared only go so far.

Baelor did not even bother to verbally reply, just looked at his young kinsman. Aerion surrendered in the battle of wills before more than a couple of moments had passed. Dunk could not help letting out a small cheer when the princeling turned to Tanselle and begged her pardon. He was not the only one who cheered.

…..

Valar knew he ought to chastise his little cousin, but he was laughing too hard to manage it.

"That hedgeknight of yours is going to get a real surprise when he finds his squire has turned into a prince overnight"

Egg nodded glumly. He was very glad his father was not present. In fact, he likely would never have dared enter the castle if he had not had a good idea that Maekar was away. Uncle Baelor would at least let him explain. (He wouldn't laugh while Egg explained, but the boy knew his uncle would be just as amused as his cousin at the idea of his escapade, no matter how disapproving he looked)

Life at court had given Baelor plenty of experience at hiding his real thoughts, which was just as well. The stern lecture he gave to Aegon may have lost what little effectiveness it had if the boy knew he was fighting to keep a grin off his face. Hopefully Maekar would never find out in exactly what garb and manner his youngest had arrived at Ashford Manor. The servants had managed to make the boy somewhat presentable, but nothing could be done about the hair Daeron got him to shave off. For all his drunkenness, his eldest nephew could be quite clever when he set his mind to it. Now only if he would use that cleverness for matters not involving wine.

"A robber knight"Daeron began before anyone could say anything" Huge he was, dressed in grey armor, big enough to have some giantblood in him. I tried to stop him, I certainly did, but he was too strong and swift…I have spent days riding around in search of him and Egg, I mean Aegon…"

Please shut up, Daeron, Valar thought.

Evidently none of the ravens or riders sent had reached the search party, so Daeron couldn't know he was building his own pyre. Maekar started to say something, but Baelor interrupted before things could go further.

"Well, we do have good news for you in that case. Aegon is here, perfectly alright."

Baelor tried to make the details sound as little damaging as possible, but all the same, Maekar's expression changed very rapidly from relief to rage as the explanation progressed. Daeron looked as if he wished he could disappear through the floor.

........................

Maekar looked like a bear with a head cold as he paced the solar, furious. Baelor knew better than to say anything while his brother was in this mood, but Maekar finally turned to him.

" And who was that thrice damned hedgeknight? How do we know he was not actually a robberknight who saw the chance…"

"Aegon claims the hedgeknight didn't even suspect who he was"

"Well, that imp is not quite a paragon of honesty, is he?"

"A kidnapper would hardly let his captive wander about the tourney grounds as Aegon was doing."

Maekar growled and turned away to pace some more.

"What was his name? What did he look like? "

"Ser Symeon was the name, according to the kid. Old, thin, rather short, dressed in bits and pieces of borrowed armor. No one fitting the description was found. He may have witnessed the ruckus and figured out who his squire was. In which case, he would almost certainly have fled the tourney, no matter how innocent he was."

"I'll sent out my own men to look for him."

"Do so, if you wish."

The hedgeknight was probably someone young, well built and tall, the exact opposite of Egg's description. The boy would not risk his clueless companion becoming the target of his father's rage.

"I am sending Aerion back to Summerhall" Maekar said, changing the subject abruptly" "Daeron would ride in the jousts tomorrow. Hopefully, he would not shame m..us as his brothers have."

Daeron, no doubt still recovering from his attempt to drown in wine. Mother have mercy. At least Aerion would be out of the way.

"The boy may have had a point. A knight in black armor slaying a red dragon…"

"The dragon puppet was green, Maekar. Like Serwyn's dragon. I didn't see the knight puppet, but Aegon is sure that it's armor was grey, not black"

Maekar did not reply. He was not going to excuse Aerion's behavior, he had gotten the details of that from men in Aerion's own entourage, but all the same, he wished Baelor had not forced the boy to apologize to the damn puppeteers. Surely compensating them would have been enough. Why further the humiliation? He wanted to question Daeron and Aegon once more, but did not trust himself to get through such a conversation without completely losing his temper and perhaps his mind.

Gods be good, why his sons?


	2. Each  To  His  Own

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting. The computer needed a rest cure. Back to work now.

"I yield" prince Valarr said, his voice a little muffled by the helm.

But it was clear enough to be heard. For a moment, a moment that seemed eternity to Dunk, there was only silence. Then someone started applauding, someone from the nobles, and that seemed the cue for applause to begin in earnest. Dunk could hardly believe this was happening. He had won the joust. Won the joust against prince Valarr, the second in line to the Iron Throne.

You are slow as an aurochs, boy Ser Arstan's voice spoke in his mind. What right do the likes of you have to challenge and defeat a prince?

He moved dazedly to help Valarr to his feet. The prince was much more skilled at swordsplay than Dunk, of course, but once he had been unhorsed, the hedgeknight's size and strength had proved a great advantage. Valarr's squires rushed to them, but the young prince waved them away as he raised his visor.

" Well fought, Ser Duncan" Valarr said, no trace of anger in his voice. He may well have been congratulating one of his own peers."It seems I owe you ransom. Name what you wish."

Dunk's hand shook as he took off his own helm. He had been a fool to challenge, he knew, and an even greater fool to win. He had no idea what to say, what ransom to claim. Name too little and it would be thought an insult…and he did need gold to redeem Sweetfoot..But that was a secondary consideration. Right now Dunk's mouth was so dry from nervousness that he could hardly speak even had he known what to say.

Valarr seemed to sense his befuddlement. He looked at the kingsguard knight attending him.

" It seems Ser Duncan's modesty keeps him from naming a price for his skill, yet skill and courage must have their reward. Ser Roland, what would you consider the right ransom?"

The white knight named a sum much higher than the highest Dunk would have dared hope for, but it seemed perfectly acceptable to the gathered nobles. Valarr nodded.

"Very well. You shall have the gold, Ser Duncan, and a place among my household if you choose to accept the position. Does that seem fair ransom to you?"

….

Dunk later wondered what exactly he had mumbled in gratitude, but the main idea had somehow been gotten through. His hands were steady now, but he still couldn't shake off the feeling that he was dreaming. Any moment now the old man would be yelling at him to get up and he would find out Ashford Meadow still lay in the future.

He had not lasted long as a champion, as the next challenger to touch his shield had been the Grey Lion's son. Dunk had managed to remain ahorse for the first two tilts, but the third had sent him tumbling down, too dazed to draw his sword and fight on foot as prince Valarr had done. But that did not matter, he had not disgraced himself, it was no shame to fall before the lion of Casterly Rocks, and he was no longer a hedgeknight. He was one of prince Valarr's household, an honor he would never have dreamed of. No matter whether or not the young prince had inherited his father's prowess with lance and sword, he certainly had inherited his character.

The only thing that convinced him this was not a dream was that he still had not managed to find Egg. The boy had vanished the night prince Aerion had caused so much trouble, and the last Dunk had seen of him was his watching the puppet show, enraptured. At first Dunk had been afraid he had been fool enough to try and get in the way of the men-at-arms, the boy seemed exactly the type of brave little fool who would try something of the sort.

But Tanselle had assured him that he hadn't been involved at all. Then where had he vanished to? Had the trouble, and the last joust of the day that had gone so wrong convinced him that the life at the inn would be preferable? Dunk prayed it was only something like that and no worse. He would go to the inn again as soon as he could, and see whether the boy had made it safe home. Please let it be so.

Tanselle beamed at him as he came by the puppet stage. The puppeteers had briefly considered fleeing before the humiliated prince could cause anymore trouble, but finally had opted to stay. Dunk was really glad of the choice even though he had had to give up his fond fancies about Tanselle. There apparently was another boy who did not find her Too-Tall, as she had made clear that second night. She didn't mind talking to Dunk though, nor taking all the time off she could to help him search for Egg. Steely Pate (who had a boy of his own around Egg's age) had asked around too, but all of it had been of no use. The boy had vanished into thin air.

Tanselle threw her arms round Dunk and kissed him on the lips."

Ser Duncan!" she called out delightedly. "Ser Duncan of the Young Prince's household!"

Dunk blushed bright red. Tanselle had a boy, yes, but that apparently did not exclude such little intimacies, at least in the minds of the Dornish. He wriggled out of her arms as soon as he could. Whatever she saw on his face made her laugh."

You blush as prettily as the Fair Maid did! Oh, when you had won the joust I was so scared!" she added abruptly.

That was another thing about her, jumping from one topic to the next as quick as a flitting dragonfly.

"The Young Prince is as great a man as his father" Dunk declared. " One of the true dragonsblood."

Tanselle smiled.

The smile faded when he asked whether she had found any trace of Egg.

"You haven't, then?"

Dunk shook his head.

"I thought maybe if he was in the crowd he would come see me.. Even if he didn't want to be my squire, I would have been much more at ease if I knew…"

"He must have gone home" she assured him. "You'll see. Just drop by the inn where you found him and he would likely be right there. It's not every boy who is cut out for a knight's life. He just decided he liked feeding horses more than riding them and was too ashamed to tell you so."

Dunk nodded. He wished the boy had waited a day more, waited long enough for Dunk to win them both a good place, a place higher than they had ever dreamed of.

….

Valarr was feeling nowhere near as noble as Dunk believed. He felt like a total idiot. Egg was never going to let him live this down. And worse, only now had he connected the dots and realized none of the knights playing to win had challenged him. The hedgeknight had been his first true opponent and this was how it went!

"You did well" Baelor said.

Valarr scowled.

"Well? It was a disaster!"

"The joust may have been" Baelor admitted."But offering your opponent a position in your household…"

"He deserved it. Someone with nerve enough to actually fight a prince, that is more than the rest of the ones I faced could boast of. Besides, if they were all too scared to fight me and win, they would be too scared to offer him a place, after that joust. They didn't even applaud till you did. Who do they think I am, Maegor the Cruel?"

Baelor smiled.

"The game of thrones, Valarr. It is even more complicated than you would imagine."

The boy sighed.

" Well, now I know why you choose to joust as a mystery knight so often. Maybe I'll try that at the next tourney"

"That is often the only way to get a true idea of your skills" Baelor agreed.

Egg had watched Dunk joust, though not from the viewing stands. Maekar had been firm on the need to punish his youngest. Egg was confined to the castle, though it had not been too difficult a matter, with Valarr's help, to convice one of Ashford's knights to take him to a high window from where he could watch. It had been more fun watching from amidst the commons, amid all the shouts and jeers, but this way he could at least see what was going on. The second day's matches had been great to watch, though he did feel bad for laughing at poor Daeron.

THE SECOND DAY( Flashback)

Daeron groaned as the sunlight dazzled his eyes. The tourney ground had been arranged so that neither of the jousters would have the sun in their eyes, but all the same, this was enough to make his head pound. He had been in a fit of terror all evening. Father was still adamant on his entering the tourney, especially as Aerion had been sent home in disgrace. What exactly did father really expect, pitting him against the likes of the Laughing Storm?

"Don't disgrace our House further"

Easy for him to say, he didn't have what felt like a dozen dragons trying to hatch out of his skull. The day was bound to be a disaster.

Finally, Valarr had taken him aside and suggested he challenge him.

"I'll go easy on you" his cousin promised" I won't even try to unhorse you on the first tilt. "

That was the first good thing to happen that day. But now Daeron was not sure whether he could even recognize the dragon shield to strike it. And the lance seemed to have a mind of it's own, wavering this way and that.

"Mother have mercy" he groaned.

Baelor suggested again to Maekar that they let Daeron withdraw, but the younger prince was in no mood to listen to council

"He is sober."Maekar declared "Ser Donnel has been next to him since yesterday to make sure of it "

No wonder the knight was looking so bad tempered, then. Daeron darted a pleading glance at them, received a glare from Maekar in return, and rode forward, resigned to his fate.

Daeron would consider it a minor miracle that he did strike the shield he meant to. Unfortunately, that seemed to have exhausted his supply of miracles for the day. "Good luck" Valarr whispered as he stood up to accept the challenge.

The stallion Daeron was riding had to adjust a lot to keep it's trembling rider on the saddle, but having been ridden by Daeron the Drunken often, it was used to such acrobatics. Daeron raised his lance, adjusting it.

Do be careful, Valarr, I have no idea where this lance wants to go.

The signal came, and the jousters thundered forward, spurring their mounts, aiming their lances…Only, where Daeron's lance went was into the ground, where it stuck quivering like a spear. The forward momentum of the stallion, combined with the sudden arrest of the lance, launched Daeron like a ball flung from a catapult. The unfortunate princeling went screaming over the head of his startled opponent and landed on top of lord Manderly in the viewing stands. (It was lucky that was the person he landed on. The mounds of fat on Manderly protected both him and Daeron from broken bones.)


	3. Winter  is Coming

"I won't squire for him" Egg declared.

This was not the best time to argue with father, given the events at the tourney, but when Maekar had told him to accompany Daeron on their way back, the boy had put his foot down.

"I won't and you can't make me"

"Indeed?" Maekar's face was thundery as a storm cloud. "And what exactly made you decide so?"

Egg didn't back down.

"That tilt, for one. I don't want everyone laughing at me like they are laughing at him. Daeron would be too drunk to notice he is being mocked, but I'd see! "

Maekar had to admit the boy had a point. Given Daeron's track record, not many would want the role of his squire, even without his performance at the tourney. Even Ser Donnel and Ser Roland had been laughing about it, though they had had no idea they had been overheard. The gods knew what the outsiders were saying. But he couldn't let the boy mock Daeron.

"You apparently found it acceptable to squire for an old, rundown hedgeknight"

Egg nearly declared Ser Duncan was worth a hundred of Daeron, but caught himself in time.

"He at least had no trouble holding his lance straight!"

Daeron sighed, hearing the shouting match in progress. He had been lying low ever since the joust (if you could call it that) and thankfully father had been too disgusted to come and seek him out. One of the white knights had come looking, but once he had located Daeron and made sure he was not currently trying the wine-drowning experience, had left him alone. Of course, once they got back to Summerhall there would be no chance to avoid him, but that was still a day and night away.

To tell the truth, Daeron himself was pretty ashamed of the entire deal, which he generally wasn't about his usual escapades (likely because this time he was sober, only extremely hung over, and could remember exactly what had happened) Damn it, why did he have to go into that inn? It wasn't like he even had his usual excuse- trying to drown out a dream- this time. He had promised himself he would just take one cup, he had Egg to look after, after all, but somehow one cup had become one bottle and…He wondered whether he would ever live it down. Probably never.

Ah, who cares. At least father would be unlikely to stick him in any more tourneys for a while. Why do they have those stupid things anyway? A bunch of men bashing at each other for the sake of a few cheers. At least he had gotten them laughing, that was one thing in his favor, though one that the rest of the family likely wouldn't appreciate.

Lost in thought and not in wine for once, Daeron walked right into a knight standing just around the corner. He was not sure whose response was more incoherent, his or the knight's, as they managed to untangle themselves.

"Say, haven't I seen you before somewhere?" Daeron asked, craning his neck to get a good look at the knight's face.

Dunk was not sure what to answer. He would never have recognized the drunk lordling at the inn for a Targaryen if one of his new brothers-in-arms had not pointed out Daeron the Drunken who had attempted to weather out the tourney passed out drunk.

"No, milord. "

Who would want to be reminded of that encounter? Even Dunk the Lunk knew better than to rub it in.

"Don't go that way for a while" Daeron handed out a friendly warning "Father is busy chewing Egg out, and you're gonna catch at least the tail end of the flame if you are handy."

Egg? Dunk had sort of recognized the high pitched boy's voice from the closed room, but had not been able to place it. What would an orphan boy from Flea Bottom be doing in the royal quarters? It was at that moment that Aegon rushed out of the room, sulking. Dunk's mouth dropped open. If not for the shaved head he would never have recognized the boy, but…Egg looked equally shocked.

What either may have said is unknown, for Maekar followed his stubborn son out. Dunk, as already demonstrated, had the problem of either getting tongue tied or blurting out the first thing that came into his head when startled. The former affliction served him well this time. Maekar paid no attention to the knight, merely nodding to his son to follow. Egg obeyed, flashing a rather apologetic smile at Dunk.

….

Brynden Bloodraven had given strict orders that he was not to be disturbed for any reason. If he was needed, he would know. Even under the best circumstances, Bloodraven never cut a prepossessing figure, but in the gloom of the bedchamber he looked more like a ghost than ever. He couldn't care less. An observer would have thought he lay in a restless sleep, often murmuring something. But Brynden slept little these days. Now, as his body rested, he was seeing through his other eyes. Thousand eyes and one.

The first thing a seer learned was to distinguish between days that were, days that are, and days to come. If you couldn't manage to recognize it, you quit if you were wise, went mad if you were not. But separating days that may be from days that will be was an entirely different matter, one which even the greenseers had trouble with. Brynden's face took on a troubled expression as he looked into the stream of fire that could be their morrows. He had caught a glimpse of two of his nephews on the Iron Throne. Baelor, crowned with a circlet of valyrian steel, a ruby set in it's center, his eyes smiling. Maekar, crowned with a spiked monstrosity of iron, a grim shadow upon his face. Will be, or may be? However, that was not the question that he sought answers for. There were things more important than who sat on the Iron Throne. He sent his mind deeper, wincing at the cold as he passed from fire into ice.

His eyes went past the Wall, upon which black crows perched, beyond the snows where wild men battled, beyond what mortal eyes were meant to see. This was not the first time he had done this, but the cold dread that assaulted his naked mind warned him even before he was past the Wall. He could hardly turn back, though. As always, he felt himself cry out as he went through the curtain of light at the end of the world, into the frozen, yet still beating heart of Winter. In the mortal plane, blood snaked from his clenched fists. Snow and ice and death waited, jagged spires of ice upon which a thousand dreamers hung rotting, still screaming as they died. He did not look away.

This time, something was different. He had known it from the black crows, one of whom had glanced up at him, the third eye gleaming balefully. Now he knew what was different. All was dead beyond the Veil, but not all were gone. They had slept, slept long and deep, but now they stirred. None remained to sing them back into sleep as of old. They were stirring, waking. What exactly they felt or thought even he could not fathom, though the Three Eyed Crow knew, no doubt. One thing he did know. They were hungry. And they sensed prey, waiting to be claimed.

…

Baelor put aside the letter. The Nightwatch, as always, needed men and money. The money could be spared, but men were a different matter. Gone were the days when Great Houses thought it an honor to have the greatest among their blood at the Wall. Now the Black Knights of the Wall were a ragtag army of thieves, poachers and murderers, the few knights or lords present having taken the black to escape disgrace or worse. The Watch had fallen upon sad days indeed.

There was a recent proposal put forward by a Northern lord about turning the Watch into a training school for knights or at least common soldiers. They could spent a few years at the Wall, receiving training, serve there for a fixed number of years and return home. That would give them men enough to man the Wall, and a man who received his training at a place like that could weather the worst that could face him down south. The proposal had been shelved at the time, but it had it's merits. Perhaps…

Jena laid a hand on his shoulder, smiling.

" Surely it is too late at night for even you to be pondering state matters?"

"A little late" he admitted, returning her smile."I hadn't had time to read this one till now"

She looked at the black seal with some distaste.

"The Watch? Is it the wildlings?"

"Desertions, more than wildlings. They seem to be having even more trouble keeping men than they have getting them. "

Jena shrugged.

"Well, it's not like most of those men are there by choice. Of course they would try to get away the moment they could, oath or not. What is a thief's oath worth?"

Good point, but what else were the Watchers supposed to do? They hardly had the men to guard against wildlings without having to guard the guards as well.

"Really, do we need so many at the Wall? The wildlings can never scale the Wall anyway"

Baelor shook his head.

"A Wall is only as good as those who man it"

Jena tried to keep her face straight, but didn't quite manage it

" Then I tremble for the Wall"

He had to agree with that assessment.

"Or do you really think the Others would be the ones sneaking past if men no longer stand the Watch?"

Both of them laughed this time.

"You would be surprised, my sweet lady, how many stern, practical lords believe just that. Even our noble Lord Stark himself may be a believer"

….

Rhae hurried away from Aerion, deciding she should warn her siblings. Aerion had never been what you could call a caring brother, but nowadays it seemed that he was getting even worse. They had all heard how both he and Daeron had disgraced themselves at the tourney, which explained father's thundery mood as well. Aerion insisted uncle Baelor had purposely gotten him sent away, and that Valarr had made a fool of himself as well, having to yield to a hedgeknight, of all people. The way other knights talked about it seemed to shed a different light on it, though they had not gotten to see Valarr yet.

Aerion growled as he paced the room. They didn't understand. None of them. Even the oh-so-perfect Baelor Breakspear. That one was snake more than dragon, of course he would be envious of true dragonsblood. He tried to remember what the crow had said, except that he had to fly. The crow…wasn't there something about it's eyes? Three eyes? Was that it?

Every flight begins with a fall…That was all this meant, the fall before the flight, none of it mattered. He was one of the true dragons. He would fly, yes, and he would bring fire and blood upon those who dared stand in his way. The crow had promised he could… But there was something he had to do before. Exactly what, he couldn't remember, but when the time came, the crow would remind him.

No one, not even Brynden Bloodraven, knew it yet, but Winter was coming. Outside the palace windows, spring breathed soft perfume, but all the same, winter was coming. The board was set, and the various pieces had moved or been moved into place. It only remained for the game to begin in earnest. It wouldn't be long now.


	4. The  Dragons  Are  Burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Spring Sickness comes to King's Landing.

Rhae finally managed to find Daeron, where he sat slumped on a stone bench, a half-empty bottle of wine held crooked in his hand. He looked up blearily at his gentle sister.

"Come on" Rhae said softly." We'll go to my rooms. We can't let them see you like this" 

Daeron blinked as if he couldn't quite comprehend what she was saying, but followed when she helped him to his feet. Thankfully, they encountered no one except some servants till he collapsed onto a couch in his sister's room.

Rhae poured the wine down the sink, hoping that Daeron would be drunk enough to believe he had emptied the entire bottle. If he badly needed some more, she would hand out from her own stock- highly watered wine kept for just such circumstances. He groaned.

"Father didn't see me did he?"

"Father is at Kings Landing, Daeron" she reminded him.

"Oh, yes. Good. And grandfather?"

"He didn't see"

Daeron the Drunken nodded.

"You're a good girl, Rhae"

His voice was almost too slurred to make out the words, but Rhae who had sat with him through too many such aftermaths could understand it more or less.

"What did you see?"

She knew it must have been that, Daeron had sworn a solemn promise to their father that he would stay sober throughout the king's visit.

"What did you dream?"

Daeron waited a long moment before answering, so long that Rhae thought he wouldn't answer after all, but then he spoke in a sudden rush of words.

"Kings Landing was burning. There were dragons there, and a raven and a crow. The crow had three eyes and the raven had only one. But it was the raven that breathed fire and the dragons that burned" Rhae remained silent. He looked at her. "The crow could see me, Rhae. The dragons couldn't and I don't know whether the raven could, but the crow could. It looked right at me with that third eye of its"

…

Prince Valarr had never gotten along with his cousin Aerion, though he was genuinely fond of the other six. The boys were generally sensible enough to stop short of (occasionally just short of) open fights, but the younger knights in their entourages were not always so prudent. So no one was really surprised when a tavern brawl erupted between some of prince Valarr's knights and some of Aerion's, beginning from an insult aimed at one or the other Targaryen. The Goldcloaks broke up the fight and the offenders were confined in the gaols for three days. There were no serious injuries, only some cuts and bruises. No lasting harm done, right? Wrong.

To begin with, the said brawl occurred on the eve of Valarr and Matarys Targaryens' planned visit to their aunt at Dorne. As such, the hot tempered knights would have to remain at Kings Landing, instead of accompanying the Young Prince. A disappointment, especially to Dunk who had heard so much of that faraway land of rebels (of course he was one of the brawlers), but nothing worse? Again wrong. Because that was the year of the Great Spring Sickness, over whose origins masters puzzled so long, and so unsuccessfully.

It began, as such always did, among the smallfolk. To begin with, no one recognized what exactly they were dealing with. Why should they? After all, this was nothing like what they were used to dealing with. In a dark alley of Flea Bottom, a thief broke into a house to find the owners dead or dying. In the Street of Flour, a seller of sweetmeats keeled over and died. A girl at one of the city's high class brothels asked the madam to let her off for the day because she felt too ill.

The first high born victim was lord Ufferling's son, the suspicion being that he must have caught it from the brothel he had been in the habit of frequenting. By now the disease was beginning to run it's usual course. First the lowest of the smallfolk took ill. Then the slightly higher class, the servants and singers and men-at-arms. From them it spread to the highborn. A groom of the royal stables was among the victims, as was a young singer popular among the ladies of the court.

"Thank the gods that the king is away!" Dunk declared.

His companion, a grizzled old knight with a brown bushy beard disagreed.

"Would've been better if the king was here and the prince was away. The king is old, we can spare him."

Almost treasonous words, which would likely have never been spoken if he was sober, but the old man had a point. Many of the nobles both away and in Kings Landing were wondering just who was and was not within the plague ridden city.

King Daeron was away at Summerhall, with his queen. He had left Prince Baelor, Hand to the King and Heir Apparent, in charge, claiming that "Old heads and old bones needed rest" Such rests were becoming more and more frequent and lengthier, so many speculated that the king was preparing to hand over the crown and retire to Summerhall for good. Prince Aerys was away at the citadel, visiting his nephew Aemon and discussing some matters with the Archmaesters. Prince Rhaegal was in the city, but not many were concerned about the meek, mad boy's presence or absence. Prince Maekar was present, though, as was his second son Aerion. Princess Jena was at the Red Keep. Of course, it went without saying that Master of Whisperers, Brynden Bloodraven, was also in the city. He almost never left, not physically, anyway.

….

The Small Council was missing a few of it's members. Either those who had fallen ill, or those who had hurried out of the city before an order preventing exit or entrance could be issued. Baelor noted the names of the latter in mind. The Grandmaester looked uncharacteristically helpless.

"It is a sort of fever, Your Grace" he said "At this point, that is all we can really tell. A fever that burns in the blood with more ferocity than any we have seen in known history. Till now, only one in ten of the sufferers have survived, and that is among the highborn who could afford immediate treatment."

"Treatment?"Maekar raised an eyebrow, "I was under the impression that none of the treatments were working."

The Grandmaester had to nod.

"By treatment I meant certain poultices and potions, but they have not proved as effective as expected. Ice baths or leeching or purging serves only to accelerate the progress of the disease, so we have stopped using them. Given time, we can find a remedy…"

"Time is in rather short supply for everyone in the city"

"What about the manner of contagion?" Baelor asked. "Have you made any progress in determining that? "

The old man sighed.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but we have made no headway in that, either. The likeliest method is contagion through air and touch"

"How does that explain lady Rysby?" one of the lords demanded.

The new wed bride of lord Rysby had been placed by her husband in complete isolation, atop a tower away from the foul humours possibly carrying disease, with enough food and drink to last an year, but all the same, she was dead by sundown on the third day. Her sisters who were with her every moment and partook of every food she had had were untouched by the illness.

"I must admit defeat there, my lord. To be honest, the victims seem to be strangely random. All members of a family except one perishes. One lord who barricaded himself away rots behind that barricade while the man-at-arms who stood guard in the street is perfectly healthy. There is no way to be certain how exactly it spreads."

"Maybe there is some common ground between the victims" someone suggested "Age or gender or…"

The grandmaester's look plainly asked Do you take me for a fool, my lord?

"That is the first thing we look for, my lord. We have found no common ground here. It is too random."

The discussion lasted long. Who would have believed there would be so many prosaic decisions, heartless decisions, desperate decisions, to be made in the midst of even a plague such as this? The city and the ports were locked down. The people were beginning to panic at that, but they could hardly risk the spread of the disease further. Ravens had arrived from Lannisport and Oldtown. Dark wings, dark words. Things were not quite desperate yet, but they were getting there.

The grandmaester insisted on shutting down the septs. Sensible. A place were thousands gathered and remained in so close proximity could hardly be other than a great risk when a sickness was ravaging the town. However, even members of the Small Council had other ideas. Lord Ufferling declared baldly that the gods were wroth enough already without being insulted thus. The septons would howl, and more importantly, so would the people. Finally a compromise was worked out. The septons would modify the usual incense offered to include certain herbs as well as hand out holy water boiled with yet other herbs. As most of the smallfolk were more inclined to trust the gods than the maesters , it would help. At least they would be taking some medicine instead of trusting on amulets.

Brynden suggested that the corpses were fed into wildfyre so as to annihilate any remaining contagion. Baelor agreed it was a reasonable idea to burn them, especially considering the number of silent sisters who had fallen victims, but he would not authorize the use of wildfyre. The substance was too volatile and the last thing they wanted was some idiot of a pyromancer lighting the city on fire. Regular fire would do. Lord Ufferling seemed to think that would anger the gods too, but he was promptly shut down. The gods would understand.

The High Septon took off the magnificient crown that was his sign of office. The young septon attending gasped. The crown was rarely, if ever, taken off outside the High Septon's bedchamber. The old man smiled.

"It will get in the way when I am outside."

"Outside?" the Most Devout looked astounded. "Your Holiness, you cannot…"

"The gods send us trials to test us, my son" his voice was quiet. "It is up to the godsworn to show the way, as it has always been"

…..

Baelor knew he didn't have time for this, but someone had to calm Rhaegal down before he worked himself into one of his fits again. With mother away, Baelor was the only one who would know the right things to tell the terrified boy.(Yes, Rhaegal was only a couple of years younger, but he was more of a child than Aegon was). Somehow, it worked, and Rhaegal was smiling happily by the time Baelor was about to leave, though the elder prince had not outright lied to him.

Rhaegal had almost returned to his toys when he saw his brother stagger. His heart lurched with fright. He had heard the servants whispering how fast the sickness sets in, how a man can get up perfectly fine at dawn and be dead before sunset.

"Baelor!" he called out"Are you alright?"

His brother turned to him, his face calm, reassuring, the familiar smile on his lips.

"Of course I am, sweetling. Just tired. I've been up all night"

Rhaegal smiled again, accepting that, as he would accept anything his eldest brother told him. Because Baelor never lied, because Baelor never made fun of him for being "not quite right". And because Baelor was always right, his big brother whom no one could best. Not even the Stranger.

But outside in the corridor, as soon as Rhaegal's door closed behind him, Baelor collapsed against the wall, shivering violently. Ser Roland moved to help him, but the prince waved him away. The maesters may not know how the sickness spread, but touching an ill man was something you'd do better to avoid. Mother have mercy, I've got it too. Cold fear clutched his heart and he nearly didn't manage to push it away.

"Your Grace…"

Ser Roland could not manage to keep the alarm out of his voice. Strangely, that helped. It was easier to be brave when others were scared, when they needed you to keep your head. He managed to get the weakness under control.

"Summon Maester Yormwell. Maekar is to take charge of the situation in my place. Not Brynden, Maekar. Send a maester to check on Rhaegal. I did not feel any symptoms till a moment ago and anyway did not touch him, but better to make sure…Don't let Rhaegal know I'm ill. And no, Ser Roland, do not touch me. I am not so unwell yet that I cannot walk"

Not yet, but it was close. Heavens, how fast did it set in! A few moments ago he was perfectly fine, and now it took all his willpower to stand upright. Thank the Seven that Rhaegal hates to be touched when he is having a bad day.

" Tell Maekar I'm sorry about leaving him to deal with the chaos on his own, but if anyone can do it, it's him."


	5. The  Shadows  Come  To   Dance, Milord.

Considering how many had fallen victims to the sickness and how many were too terrified to step out of whatever hopefully safe zones they had found, even normally picky Maekar had had to add a few knights he did not know much about to his personal guard. One of them was an erstwhile hedgeknight called Duncan the Tall, now belonging to Valarr's guard. Maekar did not recollect the knight who had defeated his nephew at Ashford, and even if he had, would have paid no attention to him. All the same, events had conspired to put Dunk in a front-row seat to the unfolding chaos.

Maekar was sort of glad he had been unarmed while speaking to that idiot of a Tully. If it had been otherwise, the Riverlanders would have found themselves short a lord, and no great loss. (As it was, the confrontation had ended with Maekar grabbing that halfwit and shaking him like a cat with a particularly plump mouse). He tore open the letter from Oldtown. Aerys was well, and so was Aemon, though considering the speed of the illness, the words may have become lies by the time the raven had crossed the skies.

The Small Council now become smaller still, had received a nasty shock when they learned the crown prince was down. Most had been too busy trying to work out the potential complications to notice others' reactions, but the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was slightly more observant. Thus it was only he who saw the very brief flash of fear in Bloodraven's unnatural eyes. The knight almost did not believe he had seen what he did. Was it merely fear for his own safety, for they had all been in the room together for hours? Surely it must have been. The prince and the spymaster had not been openly hostile towards each other, but their relationship had never gotten warmer than teeth clenched team work. Not enough to make Brynden Bloodraven, the kinslayer, to show fear at the possibility of his nephew's death.

Many of the smallfolk gathered at the sept were near mad with fear, some seeming to have literally lost their minds, some merely hysterical. Quite a few were raving. They quieted down for a bit when the High Septon came among them and sang for Mother's mercy, but one woman only seemed to become wilder still.

"No mercy!" she screamed "No mercy where the raven flies! Listen, you old fool! Listen! Can't you see them? Can't you see the dead dancing?"

Someone laid a hand on her arm, trying to lead her outside, but she resisted. She seemed to be trying to claw her way to the High Septon.

The old, devout man looked up from the altar to see the frantic woman.

"What does she want?"

The septon with him looked disapproving.

"A witch, your Holiness. A depraved woman who plies her trade among the ignorant. Apparently the possibility of having to face the Father's judgement soon has driven her frantic"

"If that is so, she needs the help of the gods more than the others gathered here. Bring her to me"

The septons looked reluctant, but they did follow the command, softly given though it was.

The woman, no longer young but still lovely, quieted down a little once she was at the High Septon's side.

"You lot don't have the least idea what is going on here. "

"And you believe you do, daughter?"

She looked scornfully at him.

"There isn't over much I believe in, but that I do know. You and your maesters have got your eyes shut tight, or you would already have seen what I do"

"And what do you see?"

A flash of fear overlaid the scorn for a moment.

"I see the dead dancing" she had almost instinctively lowered her voice "Here, in the streets, in the dragons' lair. No, not the ones the Stranger took this spring, and not the dead of the Redgrass Field. I had thought it was them come to take their slayers with them to face judgement, but no. The Black Dragon was never this dark, nor this long dead."

The old priest sighed.

"The gods shall show us mercy, my child, and guard us from the creatures of the dark."

"You can keep your seven sweet gods. I donot know them, nor they me. My gods are the fiery gods of Old Valyria, and it is they who call out to warn their children. Listen, old man. Listen well and tell the Dragonborn. The dead are gone. Their dead. The sickness takes not only breath but the very soul. They are gone, gone into Winter, gone where your timid gods can never reach, where even Meraxes and Balerion would fear to tread."

The High Septon was an old man, a wise man, a man who had had to deal with mad devotees more than once in his lifetime. He had had enough experience to form a reasonably correct estimate of a person's sanity, and was somewhat alarmed to discover this woman seemed saner than most of the people gathered at the Sept.

"Tell the Dragonborn"she commanded again. "I tried to tell him, the Scarred Prince, but he paid no heed, I knew he wouldn't. The Dark Prince may have thought me mad, but there is enough of Old Valyria in him for him to catch a glimpse once he heard…But he is taken too, they say, and the other one, the second one is away, and so are the children. Warn them. Tell them the gods of the Conqueror, the gods of Visenya, call out to them. Tell them the dead of the spring are gone beyond the Wall"

….

Most, even the highborn, believe that the Black Cells are the lowest levels of the dungeons. The smallfolk say, beneath the Black Cells lie the first of the seven hells. They are not entirely wrong. But it was the sort of hell Tyanna of the Tower and several Masters of Whisperers after her had felt at home. To be fair, none of them except perhaps Tyanna had made such elaborate and arcane use of the Fourth level before Brynden Bloodraven.

The lights of a dozen glass candles cast an eerie glow over the pale form of the unfortunate boy. Brynden was still partly in his own body, within the council chamber, which was why he needed the glass candles. The boy's lips moved rapidly, forming the ancient Valyrian words, words which he could never have understood even if he wasn't curled up sobbing helplessly somewhere within his mind (which was no longer truly his). Blood dripped from the cut he had made in his palm. The cut was not deep and should have stopped bleeding by now, but the dead were thirsty. The thrall's hands moved swiftly over the table, the blood dripping from his palm forming the sigils upon the dark surface.

A voice spoke out of the candle flames, a voice colder than the Wall, answering the words the thrall spoke. The voice reached the mind of the sorcerer through the ears of the thrall. There were words the mind could understand, but upon whose impact, mortal bodies would wither away. The answers were not entirely to the skinchanger's taste, but he kept asking. He needed to know. If this was the only way…The situation was beginning to spiral out of his control, not a state of things the Master of Whisperers was used to.

…

"Your Grace" Maester Yormwell looked horrified as Jena took off the cowl that had hid her face.

"I am not going to stay away " she said firmly "I have been here long enough. Any danger of contagion is redundant "

The maester tried to usher her out, but no. Which idiot had let her in to begin with? Not that they could be blamed, as Yormwell himself who had known her since she became the bride of his prince, had not recognized her in the servant's guise she now wore.

Jena did not wait for further argument, but pushed past the maester to her husband's side. She had to hold back a sob. Knowing Baelor was ill was one thing, but seeing the toll the illness had taken on him already…The prince lay with his eyes closed, pale, oh so pale. The room was stifling hot with the fireplace blazing, he was covered by blankets, but still he shivered as the fever raged through his blood. She could feel the heat radiating off his skin. I must not cry, I must not, I have to be strong enough for both of us now.

"Baelor" she whispered, taking his hand in hers.

Even now, he recognized her voice.

"Jena? What…"His eyes widened in alarm as he realized what she had done. "The illness…You should be.."

"Lady Ufferling has taken ill, and we had been praying together an hour ago. Whatever harm is done is done. There's no reason for me to stay away anymore"

They had been praying together, but separated by a safe distance. No one else needed to know that, though. She was not going to hide away safe in her rooms while the man she loved battled for his life. Baelor did not argue, as he would normally have done. Jena realized he was too exhausted to speak, forget argue, and felt another cold pang of terror.

"Thank the gods that the boys are away " he murmured in a barely audible voice as his eyes slipped closed again.

He won't die, Jena told herself. He won't die, not like this, not her Dragonprince.

…

Aerion smiled innocently, as if asking what his father was getting so worked up about.

"You went into the harbor?"

He shrugged.

"It was fun, watching all those fools crowding there. Do they plan to swim the river or something?"

Maekar had to restrain himself from hitting the boy across the face.

"Boy. Are you trying to die or simply too foolish to live?"

Brightflame laughed at that. Laughter had become somewhat an unusual sound in the city, and this one did not improve the situation.

"I am the Blood of the Dragon. Have you ever seen a dragon with the fever?"

His father growled.

"Has it escaped your notice that your uncle is among the victims?"

The boy's smile widened.

"Well, that only proves my point, does it not?"

Maekar was too stunned to reply, and Aerion continued.

"Such a pity that my beloved cousins are not here with us. They surely deserve a chance to prove whether they are snakes or dragons"

"Stop" Maekar could not believe what the boy was saying. "Stop right now or you will find yourself on the way to take the black the instant any can leave the city"

Generally when Maekar's voice went this cold and hard, Aerion instantly backed down, often trying to put his own spin on whatever had incurred his wrath. Not this time. He gave his father a knowing smile.

" Oh, I was imprudent. Of course it would be treason to talk of the crown prince's death. I will be careful in the future, I assure you."

The only reason Maekar did not hit the boy was because he knew if he began to hit someone while in this mood, he may not be able to stop till it was too late. Aerion continued calmly

"Uncle Aerys is at the Citadel…I hear the illness is raging in Oldtown. Worrisome, is it not, with Uncle Aerys never having been all that strong…"

"Your little brother, Aemon, is also there"

Only a careless shrug in answer.

"Leave."Maekar commanded. "You will go to your chambers and stay there till I say different. If you are mad enough to risk death, let it be, but I will not have you wandering through the palace spreading the sickness"

The boy is simply scared, Maekar told himself as soon as his son was out of sight. He is scared and trying to hide his terror with flippancy. He did not, could not, mean what he said. He turned away to pace some more. Aerion had always been a little wild. Boys of that age would rather be seen as cruel and uncaring than scared.

Oh my poor sweet bear, Dyanna's voice spoke in his mind, sounding equal parts sad and exasperated. You always had a blindspot wide as the Wall when it came to that boy. Or any of our boys, for that matter.

Aerion's smile did not fade even after he left his father's presence. The knights accompanying him and the few people they encountered in the twisting corridors looked askance at the blissful smile on the young man's face, a smile so out of place in the midst of the plague that it bordered on grotesque. Normally Aerion was exceptionally careful about how he appeared to others, but now he found he did not care over much either way. It was much pleasanter to think of the dream and lose himself in it.

The dream was much as usual in that he was a dragon. A magnificient beast, as huge as Balerion of old, shaded orange and red and yellow, breathing down devastation upon the world beneath. The difference was that this time he had the crow with him to tell him what to do. It's whispers had tickled his ears, but he had listened all the same.


	6. Only  Life  Can  Pay  For  Life.

"Daemon " Baelor's voice was so weak that even Jena kneeling at his bedside, barely heard him." Am I in your world, or are you in mine?"

His eyes were open, but Jena knew he wasn't seeing her.

"He's delirious " Yormwell said softly. "The fever has not broken yet "

And soon it will be too late, he knew but did not add. Jena's eyes held a trace of despair now. She was no maester, but she knew enough to know that Baelor's life was slipping away. For a moment she seriously wondered whether Daemon Blackfyre was indeed here, come to take the life of his enemy just as his own had been taken in the Redgrass Field.

If you are here, go after Bloodraven, she thought desperately. He was the one who killed you, killed your sons. Go after him. Baelor was the one who counseled mercy.

"He doesn't know you are here" the septa ( By now, most of those assisting the maesters were the godsworn. The High Septon had set the example, going into the bedwards for the lowest of the smallfolk, going into Fleabottom alleys to help) said softly."You should leave, child. Go to your chambers and pray there. Staying here can only cause you pain. He would not want you to see him d..see him like this"

"He is not going to die" Jena snarled, furious at the woman for even beginning to voice that suggestion. "He will wake up, and I will stay with him till he does."

She had prayed in her chambers while he was away battling the Blackfyres. She was no Nymeria or Visenya to ride with him to battlefields. The least she could do was to stay with him here and fight for him with her will.

Baelor knew he was probably dying. The fever was beginning to affect his mind, perhaps. He was not too surprised to see Daemon Blackfyre at his side.

"Am I in your world, or are you in mine?"

Daemon smiled.

"Well, the nearest I can tell, we've met half-way. You don't want to come any nearer, or you may forget how to find your way back"

The Black Dragon did not look hostile. In fact, he looked genuinely concerned.

"Don't try to talk, just think it at me. I can hear you just fine" He paused a moment." Remember the Redgrass Field?"

"As if I could forget"

Blackfyre nodded.

"Yes, you wouldn't let yourself forget the price paid…But you have forgotten something"

"What?"

"Bloodraven" The dead man's voice went colder as he spoke the name. "Remember what he did?"

"He was fighting for us, under my command"

Daemon laughed.

"No passing on the blame? Good, you haven't changed all that much. But think what he did. Other than killing me and the boys, I mean."

He somehow knew the answer before he consciously called it to mind.

" He fired through his own troops. To get at you, there was no clear shot. He ordered the Raven's Tooth to shoot all the same, shoot down as many of our men as they had to, provided they got you as well"

"Yes. I think you'll find he has not changed overmuch either. A little, perhaps, after Shiera died, but he hasn't changed his philosophy, only changed how far he was willing to go. He will still fire into his own troops if that is the only way to get at the enemy."

"What enemy?"

Daemon was not talking of the rebellion anymore. Even with the fever addling his mind, Baelor knew that.

"The only real Enemy. The Enemy beyond the Wall."

"Wildlings?"

Daemon raised an eyebrow.

"You know better than that, nephew"

He did, but he did not want to. It made no sense.

"The Others are gone"

"Are they? The Greyjoys have their brains pickled in brine, but they got one thing right."

"What is dead may never die."

The dead man smiled.

"Remember that. And remember our gods. The gods of Valyria. The Doom did not touch them"

"Did they sent you into the mortal plane again?"

"I told you, we are not in the mortal plane. Which is why I am in a hurry. I hate to be in limbo"

"Wherever. Did they sent you? Or am I just hallucinating? No, don't answer that. If you were a hallucination would you tell the truth?"

Blackfyre laughed.

"Believe what you will. But whatever you think I am, remember what I said. There is war coming, Baelor. I would have liked to be there, it is the greatest battle of all"

"The Battle for Dawn?"

"The Battle for Dawn. I don't know whether you will live to fight it, but try. They are going to need at least one of us is fighting, Bloodraven is trying to fight, yes, but he prefers to fight alone. He doesn't get it, really. This is not the fight you can win alone… He is trying, going deeper into darkness than he ever has before, paying a higher price than even he dares. " Daemon hesistated. "You know the scariest thing? There is a chance that he may be right after all. I hope not. There are some prices that are simply too high to pay"

"Blood price?"

"Our House is built upon Fire and Blood, as was Valyria and it's Doom"

The freezing cold that had been plaguing his dying body had retreated while he was talking to Daemon, but now it was returning. Not just him this time. Daemon also noticed it and shuddered.

"Gods preserve us. It is beginning."

"What?"

Was this death? It felt almost thus…

"No" Daemon's voice seemed to come from a vast distance. "Not death, something worse. You have to fight, you are the only one we could reach out to, the only one who has enough of the dragonfire within to fight here. "

Baelor could sense something waiting just beyond the threshold of awareness. Something cold and dead and hunting. If this was death, there was one thing he needed to tell his childhood friend and rival.

"I am sorry things ended the way they did."

"So am I" Daemon sighed. "If you make it back home, would you tell Daeron that I am sorry about that entire mess? No, wait. If you did say that, he'll think you lost your mind. I guess I'll just have to wait till I can tell him in person."

Something was changing. The cold was creeping closer. Daemon was still speaking, he could see his mouth forming the words, but he could barely make them out.

"Daemon, what is happening?"

He may have tried to reply, but if he did, Baelor couldn't hear him. The voice had faded out completely, and Daemon's form began to fade too. He mouthed "Good Luck", but before he could add anything more, he was gone. Only the darkness remained. Closing in on it's prey. Claiming him. Not with the Stranger's scythe, but with the frozen fangs of Winter.

….

Brynden had gotten away from the Small Council with some difficulty. The council was becoming smaller still, and though the master of whisperers had an idea that at least a few of those missing were sick with nothing more than sheer panic, he had let it slide. Let them hide. It would make no difference, if their blood were demanded. Only, Brynden was beginning to realize a bit more blood than he was willing to shed had been claimed. The ancient scrolls warned those who would look beyond the Wall, and he had heeded most of them. All the same…

He closed his eyes, his fingers hovering over the dark flame of the glass candle. He saw through his thousand eyes, not beyond the Wall this time, he dared not head there right now, but only over the realms of men. The High Septon knelt at the side of a dying whore, giving her absolution for her sins. In the Great Sept people begged the Holy King to intercede with the gods so that they, and especially his own namesake the crown prince, would be spared. Maekar paced rapidly in his chamber, no doubt wondering whether to actually implement Brynden's suggestion- To burn down the worst affected parts of Fleabottom and some other similar areas. He was worried that the flames may spread to the rest of the city, as there simply were not enough able-bodied men left to combat the fire. Jena knelt sobbing by Baelor's bedside. Brynden knew from one look that his nephew had gone beyond any chance of recovery.

I am sorry, Baelor. You were never meant to be taken.

Aerion… he did not need to look for Aerion. He instinctively sensed where that one had gone as a man would sense a raging conflagration a few feet away.

The time for final decisions had come. He had to choose…What were a few thousand lives when compared to the price the realm must pay if the Cold Ones crossed the Wall? He would give them Kings Landing, the place nearest to his heart. He would give them Oldtown and Lannisport. But would that content them? Even here, they were beginning to claim lives he had refused them. That could be dealt with. What made him hesistate was that this would win merely a temporary reprieve. He could delay them with this price of blood, send them gorged into their wintry beds again, but not for long.

How many years? How many summers? A few decades? A century? Time enough perhaps, to prepare. To ready your weapons, fashion a few new ones. Was the time worth this? And.. Was he just hiding? Hoping that he could edge away the Long Night so that it would not fall in his lifetime?

He got to his feet, beginning to pace the room as his nephew was doing a few floors above. Around him the carved sigils brimmed with blood, pulsing slowly as ripples spread through them. The dead bodies of the thralls had been removed. Orphans from Fleabottom, almost all. Boys whom no one would miss even if there had not been a plague raging through the city.

That squire, though…He had needed Kingsblood to lend power enough to the offering. Daemon's boy. Not that Daemon himself had known it was his, but Brynden had kept track of the royal bastards around, not only as his duty demanded, but also for such eventualities. Ah, there were too many collapsing and dying in the streets, only a rare few, strong in both will and body, managing to hold on for a day or two. With the mass funeral pyres, no one would wonder where the boy went, except the man who believed himself to be the bastard's father.

The crow was screaming outside, wheeling in the sky. Waiting. Brynden sighed. A change came over his face, though you would be hard put to describe it in words. It was like looking at a man who had fallen through a crack in a frozen lake and was seen as a shadow throwing himself against the surface of the unforgiving ice, unable to get through. Stepping toward one of the sigils, the one which held kingsblood, he knelt and dipped his hands into the still warm liquid. It tasted like weirwood sap.

…

"The High Septon has been taken ill, My lord"

Maekar did not bother to respond. Of course the fool was taken ill, what, did he think the gods would protect him or something? Now they would have the additional hassle of dealing with the next pious half wit to succeed him. With no little degree of irritation, he noticed that the young septon who had brought the news did not leave.

"What?" Maekar barked.

The boy held out a sealed letter. The seal of the seven-pointed-star.

"My lord, His Holiness commanded that this be brought to you"

His last will, perhaps, and suggestions on who should or should not be chosen as his successor. Or maybe, even more useless, some pious bleating advising them. It could wait. He snatched it from the boy's hand and placed it on a nearby table. He would deal with it when he could.

"Very well, septon. You may go. I will attend to this"

Oh gods, wouldn't the fool ever leave?

"My lord, His Holiness requested that you read this before you make any further would ease his mind if I could tell him that I left you examining it"

Maekar nearly snapped at the boy to get out, but then grabbed the letter. Fool or not, let the old man have some peace of mind if he could.

Damn that man. The fever must have set in pretty hard by the time he wrote this or surely even one of those sheep would not put down such drivel. He nodded at the young septon.

"I will give it due consideration"

As soon as the boy was out of the room, he flung the letter into the fireplace. At least the letter had served one good turn, reminding him to ask Bloodraven about the supposed wildfire caches the Unworthy had stashed around the city. It may well be merely a tale told to frighten smallfolk and children, but if there was any truth in it, the pyres may turn out to be another danger.

Maekar marched out of the room, commanding the knights standing guard outside to follow him. The pair hastened to obey, though the big one with the Elm tree sigil nearly tripped over his own feet as he hurried. The Master of Whisperers had always insisted none must venture beneath the Black Cells unless in his company, but the prince was in no mood to bother about such niceties.

Though Maekar did not know it, on a normal day such a decision would have led to them having to wander through the tunnels completely lost till Brynden decided to take pity on them. But for the moment Bloodraven was too preoccupied to spare enough power for the defensive spells bordering his sanctum.


	7. Beyond  The  Wall

Most believed that the Land of Always Winter lay beyond the Wall. North of the end of the world, so far away that only children need fear it. Brynden Bloodraven was not one who could find comfort in such blissful ignorance. It was not all that far after all. Beyond a wall, but not that monstrosity woven of spells and blood and ice. The Wall every mind managed to build up within the first few years in this world of ice and fire, the sort of wall that existed beyond conscious awareness. The wall that made it possible for the normal safe sane world to seem real, to seem more than a flimsy smokescreen,. The Land Of Always Winter was very near. Not more than a step or two away. If you knew the right direction to step towards, of course. As Brynden did.

The mage stood in the midst of what seemed a howling gale. It tore at him with ice cold fangs, clutched at him with fingers on which no trace of flesh was left. Over the years, Brynden had learned to ignore that. They could not harm you, not unless you were weak or ignorant, neither category to which he belonged. When he spoke, it was in High Valyrian, the tongue of the sorcerers of the Valyrian Freehold, the tongue of the blood mages who first bound these to their will and paid the blood price in the Doom.

The first time he had gone in there, gone this deep, it had been pure hell. Nothing. Literally nothing. Darkness, emptiness, silence. He had almost panicked, thinking himself doomed to eternity here, but the voices of a thousand greenseers gone into the earth and the fire and the water had whispered in his mind, guiding him through. Now, of course, he needed no guide, though he was not fool enough to let down his guard, even for the merest fraction of a breath. If he did, he would never draw breath again.

His voice was sweet as any minstrel's as he chanted in the tongues of those long dead and gone.

"Enemy, mine Enemy, I seek you thus. Enemy, mine Enemy, I search for you. You have drunk of the blood I shed. You have feasted upon the grief that bled from my victims. You shall appear before me. I command you to show me your face. To answer my query. To obey. Bound you are to me by the blood you gorged yourself upon. Come before me, answer my call"

…..

The first thing Baelor became aware of was the cold that bit into him. No, cold was too mild a term to describe this. He had felt cold before. This was beyond anything even a Nightswatch man may have felt in the midst of Winter. The second thing was that he could not move, could not breathe. That was not the scariest thing. The scariest was that he did not need to breathe. His lungs should have been screaming for air, it had been two whole minutes spent without drawing a breath, but it didn't hurt at all.

Dead. I am dead. Jena, Love, I am sorry.

Was this one of the seven hells? Would make sense that they would put the fire-for-blood-and-blood-for-fire Targaryens in a hell filled with ice, not flames. He was lying on a cold, smooth solid surface. Lying on ice. Either he had gone blind or was surrounded by absolute darkness. There were things moving in the dark around, and he got the impression that he should be thankful for the deep darkness, if only for ensuring that he did not have to catch sight of them.

A few moments passed before he could will himself to try and move. There seemed to be something trying to drag him down, down so deep that he would not even be aware there was a surface above him. Something whispering in a soft voice that he had done all he could, that now he should just give in, just rest. Let it take him where it will. The weariness pressing down on him was so heavy that he almost yielded, but both Targaryens and Martells share one character. The more they are urged by words or circumstances to do something, the more likely they are to do just the opposite. He managed to draw in a thin gasp of air. Cold, cold air that burned his throat as it moved down, but a burning that he welcomed. The dead can never draw breath, cold or not.

Now the situation was becoming a little clearer, if no less dire. He struggled to move, to push himself to his feet, but found he could not do so much as lift his hands from that icy surface. The weakness of the fever had left him. Of course it would. It had weakened his body, but he was no longer in his body, was he? He had his strength back now, but it did him no good. Something held him pinned to the ground, a nebulous force so vast, so ancient, that he could no more overcome it than a worm could push away the foot about to crush it.

Instinctively, he sensed where he was and what was happening, even though the part of his mind operating on logic screamed out wild denials. There were other people in the darkness. Not just things, people. Normal people. He heard a thin drawn out whimper of pain. A broken sob. A child's quiet, hopeless weeping. They were all bound as he was. Maybe bound even tighter. And, he knew without knowing how, the ones managing to make atleast some sound was in the minority. Most lay bound in the cold power's embrace, helpless even to draw breath for a scream or groan.

Remember. A voice spoke in his mind, a voice that was in fact a thousand or more voices speaking together. Voices of Old Valyria, voices silent since the Doom. Remember. Among the voices of the long gone, a more familiar voice, Daemon's voice, half-mocking, half-concerned. This is not a joust, Breakspear. You tame dragons with will, not strength. There was still the cold whisper of the darkness trying to drown out the new voices, but they kept up their resolute chant.Fire made flesh, a woman's voice called out. The dragons are fire made flesh and so are we. The other voices joining her.Fire and Blood. Blood for fire and fire for blood. Remember.

He did remember. Memories buried centuries past, but still burning in the veins which carry dragonblood. Memories of ancient Valyria and it's last deed, last spell, as great as it was terrible. The pact of ice and fire. A smile appeared on his lips. He let his eyes close. The darkness did not hide much anymore. He stopped fighting with his limbs and focused his mind, his will, upon that which held him prisoner. Our minds against yours. Our will against yours.

….

Brynden knew better than to show the least sign of fear or weakness here. They were predators, instinctively drawn to move in for the weak, to go for the throat at the first hint of vulnerability. He maintained a non chalent, careless look of complacence as the shadows before him writhed and moved, solidifying into a humanoid form before him. The Other's armor was dappled, half transparent in the shimmering light of deep winter, it's smile cold and knowing. The Night's King stood before him, eyes dead and alive with a pulsing force he did not want to look deep into.

"Greenseer"

The voice was harsh, cold, metallic. The sort of voice you would expect if the swords of the Iron Throne learned to speak.

"Night's King" Brynden responded, equally calm.

"You should not have meddled in matters beyond your understanding, mortal child" the being before him had grown clearer, more there, since the last time Brynden had summoned him." It was unwise of you to venture this far, and even more so to call me to you"

Brynden's senses were strongly attuned to any warning signs and were in complete agreement with the Other in this matter at least. He buried the fear as deep as he could and met the dead living eyes.

"Indeed?"

The creature nodded.

"Did you really believe you could control us, greenseer? Did you imagine I am a petty spirit to come do your bidding?"

"Whatever you are" Brynden stated "How great or small, you have eaten of the blood and grief I poured out for you. You and yours have accepted my sacrifice, yet you over reached the ancient laws to claim what I forbade you"

"The ancient laws. Bloodraven, there are laws more ancient than even the weirwoods can whisper to you. And those are the laws that bind me and mine."

The conversation was not moving in any direction Brynden would have preferred, but he could not back off. The realization that he may have badly miscalculated was beginning to dawn on him. Not a pleasant feeling, especially once you are past the moment of no return. It had been a gamble, a desperate one and he may well have overplayed his hand. There was another in Kings Landing connected to this.

The crow had found a familiar of it's own and had been even busier than Brynden had imagined. The cold hands clutching at him was no longer quite so shadowy, quite so easy to evade. Strength was flowing into them and their king even as the strength of Kings Landing drained away.

…..

Aerion, in his room, smiled as he looked out of the window. He was not seeing the city streets stretched below him, filled with the dying, nor the funeral pyres blazing in the distance. His eyes saw these, but his mind wandered over the icy plains where so many sobbed and sky above was filled with howling, whirling stars that cast a dead light over the doomed. He flew above them, the bright dragon breathing icy fire, his eyes looking down upon the raven below, wrapped in icy coils that were choking him even as he fought.

The crow had told him to stay, to stay right there, the counterpoint to the dying raven. As long as there was another they could anchor onto, they could do what they pleased with the raven whether or not he had been the one to open the door for them.

Aerion knew quite clearly what was to happen now. The raven would die, the snake was already near death, he would die too, the illness was raging in Oldtown where frail uncle Aerys huddled away in terror. The Iron Throne belonged to dragons. He felt the ruffle of feathers as the crow landed on him, and once again heard it's whisper. Someone was coming. Not coming here, this was not a place whose existence they would even be able to comprehend, but coming near enough.

And once they got near enough, they could well be pulled in…

….

Maekar was getting more and more irritated with each step down. What was Brynden thinking of, hiding here while there was a damn emergency they were trying to cope with? And he had terrified all the servants so badly that not even one of them would dare go down there and disturb him, even if the acting Hand commanded it. Though not even Tyanna of the Tower's tortures would have gotten him to admit it, part of the irritation was thanks to the deep unease the place instilled in him.

Damn it, humans belonged above the ground.

The unfortunate knights chosen to accompany him was not so stoic. Dunk, in particular, jumped if any noise in the walls came anywhere close to him (which happened way too often). Who knew what restless ghosts may lurk here? How many of noble blood, royal blood, had breathed their last in agonies here? He had heard rumours of those who ventured too close to the fourth level or even to the black cells simply vanishing, never to be seen again.

Whatever his faults were, Duncan the Tall was no coward, But facing a living, real enemy was one thing, fighting shadows quite another. The large torches they carried were too feeble to push away the darkness more than a few paces, and called attention to little glimmers of reflecting eyes in the shadows, eyes set a little too wide apart to be dismissed as rats.

The door separating Bloodraven's sanctum from the rest of the fourth level was ajar. Maekar could hear his uncle's voice raised in a creepy chant, but neither he nor the knights noticed anything else out of the ordinary. Their footprints showed dark red from where they had stepped on the blood sigils unawares, but they did not see those either. Not then.

Aerion was a little reluctant to do what must be done. His father…But the three eyed crow whispered in his ear again, telling him what he already knew in his deepest heart. His father was no more suited to sit the Iron Throne than the snake, the maester or the half-wit was. They were all tainted, they must all be swept away. Besides, the crow whispered, how do you know he will be harmed? If he is worthy, he will emerge unharmed as you are.

"Fire cannot kill a dragon" Aerion whispered as he swooped down over the thin barrier that separated Maekar's version of reality from Brynden's.

Aerion had always thought dragonflame would be red, orange, gold, the fiery colours. But the breath that flew from him was icy blue, glimmers of black within, strange and other worldly. He found he did not like it over much. All the same, blue or not, it burned just as hot as any flame would. The towering wall melted under his assault, the barrier between the two worlds melting away under the flames of one who could truly belong to neither.

Maekar was a couple of steps away from Bloodraven, on the verge of reaching out and shaking him out of the eerie trance when he felt a sudden blast of cold. His first thought was that the illness had finally claimed him too, but he was not the only one who cried out. One of the knights,, not the big one, dropped his shield in shock. The cold was in a moment, the least troubling factor of the environment.

Dunk was the first to scream, though not the only one.


	8. Can  Your  Sword  Cut  The  Cold?

There are times when the primal mind wrestles control from the thinking, human portion of the brain. Like in a battle where you have to rely completely on reflexes to keep you alive and the opponent dead, when there simply is no time to think. Then again, there are times when the thinking mind willingly hands over the baton to the animal within, because it simply cannot cope with what the senses are telling it.

When actually thinking about what's before you can be damaging not only to life and limb, but your sanity as well. Like when it decides, Okay, you can work out whether it is impossible or not later, the main thing is that it is here! It was the second phenomena that allowed Maekar and his guards to survive the first few minutes in the Land of Always Winter.

Bloodraven and … Whatever in seven hells that thing was, stood facing each other, locked in a battle of wills. Each had his eyes (yes, here Brynden did have both eyes) fixed upon his foe's, their lips moving silently forming words of Power, words of ancient worlds. Surrounding them, in a loose circle stood other creatures. Watchers with burning blue eyes. Pale, patient, faceless, silent shadows, all but invisible in the shifting light.

They, unlike their leader, were no more than shadows yet, and though as one they turned towards the intruders, they could do no more. It was the outer circle that posed the danger.

Blue eyed they were, though in life they had had eyes of green or brown or black or even the royal shades of purple. As blue eyed as their masters. Their flesh, whether tanned or rosy or pale, had gone white as the snow upon which they stood. Dunk and Ser Arstan had once come upon a dead man left to rot where he had fallen, and the smell reminded the young knight of that. Only, this was a thousand times worse.

Dead flesh, dried blood, but beyond all that, the horror of death that is not death at all, death that brings no rest, no refuge, no freedom.

Perhaps one of the shadows spoke a command. Perhaps the old lore spoke true and they could sense and crave the warmth of the they surged forward, descending upon those who belonged beyond the Wall. Dunk screamed again, but even as he screamed he darted between Prince Maekar and the three ice demons that had focused on him.

Maekar had his own sword out faster than one could blink . He was mentally cursing himself for choosing the ceremonial weapon rather than the mace he used in any real fight. All the same, even with a weapon that was not his primary one, the Targaryen was a formidable fighter.

Dunk was not sure where either of the other men were, and at the point he couldn't spare thought enough to care. Staying alive was tough enough, with the damn things clawing and biting down on him, seemingly undeterred by the wounds. Dunk sliced the head clean off a wight, only to have the decapitated body continue trying to claw his throat out till he hacked the thing to a dozen pieces.

In a brief moment where he managed to look around, he saw prince Maekar holding off three or four at once. The other knight, ser Beronn, was already down. He wanted to go to the prince's aid, but it was all he could do to deal with the wights targeting him. That, combined with keeping his sanity, took all he had. And that was before he got a close look at the creatures' faces.

The dead had indeed gone beyond the Wall. Not their bodies, which were even now being devoured by flames, but what mattered more. What they were. And they had changed, ice piercing into their hearts, growing cold and pale as all memories of warmth fled them forever. Dunk saw the old knight with the bushy brown beard, the one who had declared the king was old, they could spare him. Hoarfrost hung from the beard, sharp icicles that hung down to the man's chest.

Young Ufferling's amiable none-too-bright face was now blank and white as his hands ( black as night and stronger than they ever had been in life,) sought to tear out the heart of the Targaryen prince of whom he had once stood in awe. Sweet Lady Rysby's little hands left deep clawmarks down Dunk's face before he struck off her arms and then her head.

Three ghastly children squabbled like hungry dogs over the dead body of Ser Beronn. One of them had been his squire.

Brynden was vaguely aware of what was happening around him, but could not spare enough energy to care. He was fighting too, though not with sword or strength. He could sense Aerion nearby, though by now the boy was not his own master. Not that the fool of a wannabe dragon knew it. Was the boy horrified at what was happening? Did he have the least idea what he had done? Did he care? The Night King smiled, icy cold edging closer and closer to the sorcerer's heart. Closer than the flame in him could hold off.

" Surrender" the dead voice whispered. "Surrender, and it will be swift. Who knows, perhaps you may feel nothing"

Brynden growled, but he knew full well that he was nearing the end of his reserves.

Dunk found himself fighting back-to-back with Maekar. The prince glanced at him.

"Keep them off me" Maekar ordered, knowing that it was an impossible command, and too much to ask of a knight green as summer's grass.

But he knew he had to get to the leader, the creature battling Brynden, if he were to put an end to this. Dunk bravely nodded. The prince wondered for a moment whether he would be able to get through the circle of White Walkers, but he need not have worried. They were little more than shadows and gave way before him as he bulled his way through. It was like grasping cobwebs that melted away at one touch.

The utter fool. Brynden would have shouted a warning to his nephew had he been able. What did he think he could do with that damn sword of his? It was not even Valyrian steel, merely a sharp edged castle forged toy. Maekar had intended to strike down the creature, but all strength fled his limbs the moment he stepped into it's cold aura.

He had thought he had known terror, he had known it well enough in the battle fields, he had been near enough to the Stranger to feel it's breath on him. But this was different. This was the kind of bright flaring terror that no mind can suffer long without simply imploding. This was not death, not the end of life, but the end of everything.

He could no longer see Brynden or the young knight or the wights or even the damn creature he had, like a foolish five year old trying to hunt wild boar, charged at. There was only darkness, a darkness which had weight, a weight pressing down on him, stopping his breath, and a presence in the darkness. A presence larger and more terrible than he could have imagined.

May be it was the true form of the Night King, maybe it was something else, some Great Other, to whom the Night King was no more than an amusing puppet. He did not even feel the sword shattering in his grip as the Night King reached out to touch it.

There were voices around him, sobbing, weeping, gibbering. Maekar sank to his knees, knowing that he was about to die…No, death would be welcome compared to what was coming. He was to join those voices, join the corpse puppets with snow white skin and night black hands. Was this what happened to them all? All whom the sickness took…The High Septon. Looks like you weren't the fool at all, old man. I doubt it's a comfort to you, though.

" Damn you, Bloodraven" he muttered. "If we can find each other in here, I will.."

….

There comes a point when a drowning man can no longer keep from taking a breath. He knows full well that the act would only fill his lungs with water and drown him from within, but he can't help it. Imagine reaching that point. And then, just when your traitor body is about to doom itself, you find yourself breaking through the surface, the breath filling you with life, not death.

Finally emerging from the suffocating darkness felt very like that.

The cold white light of the snow dazzled Baelor for a moment. It was cold, yes, but it did not bother him particularly. More of a minor annoyance than the incapacitating threat it had been not so long ago. He looked over the expanse of snow and ice, and knew he was not merely somewhere far north, that he was past the Wall, farther than even the most daring Nightwatch Rangers had gone.

He was wearing armor. But armor made of something so light that he had hardly been aware of it. Not his usual heavy black armor, but a dark grey one…Valyrian steel. Spell forged. He could feel the power, the fire, that had gone into this. And he could feel that other power, the power that was the enemy of not only fire, but of warmth, of life. It was hunting, and this was it's homeground.

Go on, The voices whispered. They had lost some of their force now. After all, this was not the land which they could tread. You know where they are. He could feel their presence at his side. Soon, he knew, they would fade away. There was only so far that they could accompany their descendant, their champion.

Some part of his mind still believed this was just a fever dream, that he was delirious and dreaming all this up, but that part was beginning to sound less and less sure of itself. And if this was a dying dream, well, at least he was getting to go out in style. He smiled a little at that thought.

The smile vanished when he heard the unmistakable sound of battle. Sounds carried well over the silent expanse of snow and the sound of a sword slashing through flesh is not something anyone who has ever been in the midst of battle can mistake. Voices carried well too, and at least one of them seemed horribly familiar.

Even after all that had happened, Baelor's mind almost refused to believe this was real. The Others were gone. The Night King was a story wetnurses told their charges to keep them quiet. The dead don't rise as wights, meat puppets. All the same, Brynden lay helpless at the feet of the Night King, unable to hold on any longer. A young knight was with increasing terror and decreasing success trying to keep the wights at bay. Maekar knelt, unarmed, his sword shattered on the ground near him, surrounded by circling pale shadows that were becoming more and more solid by the minute.

Damn it. Fever dream or not, no one got to hurt his kid brother.

The Night King seemed to sense him and turned, an eerily calm smile on the dead face.

"Even a prince must bow down before a king"

It's voice almost made him wince, but he met it's eyes with a casual smile, as if he thought it barely worth wasting his time on.

"Fortunately, they took the crown from you the day they took your life, corpse king" .

Its smile widened, becoming more predatorish. Brynden stirred feebly. Well, he wasn't dead then. All the same can't depend on any help from that direction.

The wights began to move away from the knight, not really heading towards the new opponent, but circling, surrounding. The knight took advantage of the breathing space to hack to pieces a torso trying to clamber to his throat. Baelor had his sword in hand, but he was reasonably certain the wights would stay out of the way. It was Brynden's place in the battle that he had taken, something of which the creature before him was perfectly aware.

" So" it breathed, his words perfectly audible despite how soft it had spoken." Valyria. Born of fire, born of blood. You belong to the Summer, Targaryen. "

He did not have time to answer. The creature's will was a force, a palpable force, emanating from it, lashing out with all the force of a morningstar. Baelor stumbled back, but did not go down as Maekar had done. The Night King nodded.

"Aye. This is going to be intresting."

Enough of the man he once had been, the Nightwatch commander who knew no fear, the Stark of Winterfell with ice in his veins, remained in the being for it to feel genuinely eager for a worthy opponent.

It was only now that Dunk was getting time to process what was happening. The wights had more or less lost interest in him, focusing instead on the prince, perhaps standing ready to charge forward if the command was given. Dunk moved so as to place himself in the way of said charge, but he had no illusions about his ability to stop or even inconvenience them.

He was already wounded, he had no idea how badly, and the only reason he had survived this long was that the White Walkers were somehow leeching off strength from the wights. The Night King battling Bloodraven and the Walkers who had brought down Maekar had been drawing on the echoes of life left in these former victims of theirs. A horrible idea struck him.

Had all the wights pulled back now because the Night King was drawing on them, all of them, for some massive attack against prince Baelor?

And how had the prince gotten here, to begin with? Dunk knew he was ill, that was why prince Maekar was in charge, but the warrior standing before him looked perfectly fine, armored in a shimmering grey metal that itself looked a bit spooky. Was he dead? A ghost? The shade returned to defend his people, his family, for one last time? There was something not quite human about the prince as he stood there, calmly challenging the Night King. Or was that just imagination going on overdrive?

Actually, Dunk had had much less trouble than the high born in dealing with the flip his view of reality had taken. To begin with, he was younger, near enough to childhood to remember nights spent trembling under the blanket for fear of these very creatures. Also, he had much less information about the Wall or the Watch or it's history. Like many of the smallfolk, Dunk's version of the world was a vivid and confusing mixture of reality and fiction. It seemed perfectly natural, terrifying but perfectly natural, to be facing off against the undead.

After all, monsters dwelt beyond the Wall, and now they too were beyond the Wall, weren't they? It was this that had allowed him to survive longer than his brother-at-arms, ser Beronn, who had spent the last minutes of his life trying to convince himself that this was just a dream. Dunk was occupied with more practical considerations. Considerations like their chances of getting out of this mess alive. Besides, of course, murmuring frantic prayers not only to the Seven, but every god he had ever heard of.


	9. Battle

The Night King smiled calmly at his mortal opponent, but he knew this was not one of the normal confrontations that would end in a curbstomp battle with the mortal on the receiving side. Yes, this one was mortal, and in the earthly plane, his body lay dying, it's life force leeched into the Others. But all the same, there was something different, something that spoke of ancient power, of dragonflame, of the dead who still hold warmth within them. He was not alone.

Dunk looked at the two opponents now facing each other with a clear cold calmness extremely rare to him. The young knight was far from being the sharpest tool in the box, but he did have a strong intuition that had, till now, kept him out of serious trouble. That intuition was now practically screaming at him that this was it, this was the only fight that mattered.

The wights did not matter. The shadowy White Walkers would matter, but not yet.

"Prince Baelor" the creature looked almost amused, as if addressing a precocious child. "Do you have the least idea what and who you are trying to challenge?"

Baelor looked at the wights, a cold rage rising in his eyes.

"The one who has done this to my people. That is all I need to know now"

The Night King laughed.

"Are you going to command me to let them go? Are you going to demand I free them? Believe me, they are mine. Given willingly. "

He glanced at Brynden.

"They were not his to give. And you will let them go. "

"You have come a little too late for that, dragon prince. They may or may not have been his or yours, but they are mine now"

The creature's tone and posture were relaxed, but before the words were even completed, it charged forward.

Dunk screamed a warning, but it wasn't necessary. Baelor's sword met the Night King's, valyrian steel against whatever that thin incredibly sharp blade was made of, and both fighters staggered back a bit at the impact. Baelor realized that his foe's form was somehow changing, melting into itself, rippling. For a moment, he nearly caught a glimpse of what lay beneath the surface, the puppeteer behind this long dead man.

A form, which if seen face to face, would destroy any mortal's sanity and perhaps stop his heart in sheer terror.

He managed to pull back from that true sight just in time. What was behind the mask did not matter right now. Whatever it was, this mask, the mask of the corpse king was what it wore here, and it was against that mask he had to battle. That mask which would decide whether he and his would ever find their way back from this mad cold world.

"You, a mortal child, a summer child, to battle me? Do you believe the bloodmages can help you? Your kinsman hoped the greenseers would stand with him, and they may have done, but that did not end well for him or them, I imagine"

Baelor did not bother to reply. If it had been a normal swordfight, he could not have held the creature at bay for long. He was strong, and had seldom met opponents who were equal in skill and strength to him, but this foe had not only millenia of experience but also strength leeched from the thousands dying in the mortal plane.

However, this was not the mortal plane. Here will and mind mattered more than strength and swords.

Maekar was barely aware of what was happening around him, only the devouring cold that clutched at him, hungry for his warmth, his blood. Dunk realized that the shadows around the younger prince was no more just shadows. They were becoming solid, solid enough to actually use the swords that were shimmering into existence in their hands. Soon, the swords would be solid enough to pierce flesh and blood.

Dunk had more than once tried to charge at the shadows already, but they had always melted out of his grasp, and once they did become solid enough for his sword to harm them, it would be too late. He could do nothing against them. But the wights…There was nothing shadowy about them. If he attacked them, forced them to use their strength instead of chanelling them into the Walkers…

It was a suicidal move. The wights had pulled back when the battle of wills had begun, and they had pulled back just in time for Dunk who had simply collapsed on the icy ground, at the end of his strength. He had no chance of surviving another round, forget winning. He was a young fool, but not fool enough to delude himself in this matter.

He may not win, he may not live to tell the tale, but he could distract the creatures. Take a few of them with him, perhaps distract them long enough to make a difference, buy time for those whose lives did matter. He charged towards the loose outer circle of the dead men, yelling a hoarse battle cry.

Brynden, though helpless to move or speak, was fully conscious and aware. Among all the players in this arena, he was the one with the clearest idea what was happening. He saw Duncan charge forward, his useless sword bravely clasped in hand. A small smile touched his lips.

Yes. Now.

He was not able to speak the words, but for some magic, one does not need words.

No one was more surprised than Dunk himself when his sword exploded into flame. He would consider it a miracle that he did not drop it in shock, but fortunately he had already been swinging it down in an arc which sliced through the wight with the bushy brown beard. The beard took flame first, despite the frost clinging to it, and in a moment, the rest of the dead man followed.

The surrounding wights let out a sound that was half a moan of pain, half a snarl of rage. Now he definitely had their attention as even the shadows turned a little to see what was happening.

Maekar felt the weight of the will pressing him down lessen. Only a little, but even a little was enough. The darkness was not so complete now, lit as it was by the blazing swords of the two warriors. The stoic, no-nonsense Targaryen was by now almost certain that he had gone insane, but like his brother, he was the sort who would never give up even in a dying dream.

He saw the shadowy foes pull back a little, and raised his head, determined to at least see what in seven hells was going on till the end. His hand grasped what was left of his broken sword almost without conscious thought.

Baelor knew that this fight would not be won with strength. The spell forged sword in his hand would help, but it would not be enough. He knew there must be other weapons if he was to win… But for a few horrifying moments he had no idea what weapon. What can hurt the dead? What can hurt death? Not fire, not steel, not even spells. The two opponents had each other in a blade-lock now, each trying to force the other backward, willing the enemy's sword to shatter. What can hurt death?

"Nothing, foolish mortal" the dead voice snarled. "Nothing, and you should have known that already, their wise prince. Can you kill the eternal?"

It should have kept quiet. Much to his startled surprise, Baelor realized it was afraid. No, not just the Night King, the other creature, the one in the shadows. It was frightened. Not just of him, of Maekar, Brynden, the young knight. They were fighting, fighting and hurting it. Maybe not much, maybe not enough to be noticeable in the long run, but they were hurting a creature that claimed to be eternal.

What can hurt death? Why, life, of course.

Remember.

The old voices whispered, an echo of laughter in them.

It is life the dead fear, life and warmth and love and fire, the very things they mock. A Summer child, aye, but it is summer that slays winter. Life is the Flame you need. The spellweavers of Old Valyria had fought with their minds, their memories, with all they were. If you can believe in it, believe that Summer would never be gone forever, believe that there is more light than darkness, that even in winter not all days are freezing cold, you will stand a chance.

When you are in a real fight, a fight for your life, you donot have time to think. In fact, you must not attempt to think, because, once you have reached a certain point of experience, your body can and will react faster and more smoothly than your mind can command. Trying to think what to do would only mess with the reflex. That was something every warrior learned.

If you were in command, though, things got a little more complicated. You had to basically function on two levels. Think and plot and command with your mind while your body handles the staying-alive part.

Life. Jena's smile, the feel of her lips against his, Valarr's carefree laughter, the feel of Matarys' little hand in his, the look of pure trust in Rhaegal's wide eyes, father's voice, the misshapen shadow of the Iron Throne…Everything that mattered. He called to mind the images, held them there, and felt new strength flow into him.

The Night King snarled, beginning to lose ground, but not quite understanding how. The sword in Baelor's hand (it looked like Blackfyre now ) was beginning to flicker into flame.

The wights had no instinct of self-preservation. Made sense. After all, they were dead. It made Dunk's task easier than it could have been. They were wary of the flame, but all the same, they kept coming, moving forward like an oncoming tide, heedless of their dying comrades. The white shadows turned towards Dunk, apparently realizing he was more of a threat than Maekar.

Bad move. They were stronger than they had been, but with so many of the wights down (even those who didn't come within range of the sword had begun to catch fire from their flaming comrades) and the remaining ones needing their own strength, they were no longer as strong as they believed. Nor as real.

The Night King snarled as he was pushed back. He felt the flame of his opponent's sword beginning to burn him. More than that, he could feel the power enveloping the dragon prince, covering him like a mantle of flame.

"They will still die" he declared "No matter how well you fight, young prince, they are dead. You cannot take them back into your world. You cannot find your way back into your world. They are already dead, and you will only kill them once more, whether you win or you lose this duel."

"Better dead than what they are now. Better dead than your thralls"

"They were given to me, and they are mine "

"Then I claim them by right of conquest"

"You will have to win, first. And survive"

The Night King snarled a word in a tongue long gone, gone even before the Children of the Forest learned their songs. The White Walkers surged forward as one. If Brynden had still been in the mortal world, he would have sensed a change, a turn of tide, in the epidemic. Several sufferers were granted a momentary respite, as one of them became the sole target of the shadows.

Baelor stumbled back as he felt the strength drain out of him. Life. It was life that held them at bay. Once death claimed him, he would no more be a threat than any of the thralls with the dead blue eyes.

The corpse king laughed, but he could barely hear him. The sword drooped in his nerveless fingers, no longer afire. No longer a weapon. The Other's sword slashed down…only to be parried by Maekar who had flung himself in the way.

The broken sword in the younger prince's hand could be of little use in offence, but for defence it was still viable, if backed by sufficient strength. The move was no less suicidal than Dunk's attempt to confront the wights, but it bought time. Not much, but enough.

Are you going to let those things kill him? Kill your people?

This time Baelor was not sure whether the voice was Daemon's or his own. But he was certain of the answer. And he was certain there was little time left.

He closed his eyes, calling to mind all he had done earlier, and more. Not just the memories of summer. Memories of winter too, for winter, winter of humankind, is not the Others' winter. Pain proves you are alive. In winter you have a chance as long as you could still feel the cold. The images he summoned up this time were not merely those he craved.

Jena, the children, they were all still there, but so was Daemon, cold and dead upon the Redgrass Field, a surprised look on his face as if death was not anything like what he had expected. Daemon's twin boys, for whose sake he had stayed and died though he could have fled. The mass pyres of the smallfolk who had flocked to the battle for no other reason than that their lords had commanded it. The helpless rage in the eyes of that old peasant woman who had come to the aftermath of the battle, looking for her son.

The price we paid.

The sword took flame again, silver flames, as he stepped forward once more, for the only chance he would have. He was pitting against the undead foe all that he was, all the choices he had made, all the pain, all the joy, all the courage and fear and strength and weakness, everything that he was, everything that made him human, proved him alive. The Night King's snarl turned into a wordless scream, and the undead screamed with him.

There was a moment when the wights made as if to rush en masse at the princes, but only a moment. Dunk watched in awe as the unholy life was ripped away from the corpses which crumbled like ashes in a storm.


	10. Aftermath

The palace corridors, normally buzzing with plots, plans and intrigues, lay deserted and silent, except for the few hurrying on some errand or the other, not daring to slow their pace, as though they hoped to outrun the disease.

  
No one accosted Brynden Bloodraven as he hurried through, one of the hurrying figures. In the dull colored but expensive clothing of a middle level palace servant, he was clearly too low ranking to be cornered as a source of information, and too high ranking to be hastily recruited for some menial errand.

  
Of course, the death pale face and blood red eyes of the sorcerer would have attracted unwanted notice, not the least because the two above him in the command chain were currently out of action, one dying and the other missing. Equally of course, Brynden was not fool enough to wear his own face unchanged. Faceless Men may have developed and perfected the technique, but they had no monopoly over it.

  
The Throne Room stood empty and silent, but unlike the palace corridors, it did not feel empty. The dragon skulls on the walls watched , and the misshapen Throne born of Dragon Steel and Dragon Flame brooded. Brynden paused in front of the huge structure, then stepped forward and in a swift move, slashed his palm open on one of it’s claws. The droplets flowed down into the tangle of steel and vanished.

“Drink.” Brynden’s voice was soft and barely a whisper, but it seemed to echo in the silent chamber. After a long moment, he stepped away, eyes roaming over the dragon skulls as if meeting their eyes, as if memorizing them. With a sigh, he turned away.

  
The old gods have decreed no prayers, no praises to be sung. He who prays to them is a fool. They are of the wild. And like the wild, they reward only the fittest. The strongest, smartest, and most importantly, the most ruthless. Brynden had learned that even before the weirwoods began to speak in his dreams.

  
You do not pray to the old gods for favors, for mercy. They know not of mercy. If you want something from them, you must be prepared to wrestle it from their grip. Brynden was prepared. He did kneel before the Heart Tree, true, but it was as much a mark of genuine respect as the curtsey exchanged between those who are about to duel.

Anyone who saw him would have remarked nothing strange. Of course, there were none worshipping in the godswood in contrast to the packed-to-the-brim septs, but even King’s Landing held some who belonged to the ancient gods of wood and earth. Merely a worshipper, kneeling before the gods.

  
In the same low yet power filled voice he had used before the Iron Throne, Brynden spoke the ancient words. The ancient words of a tongue older than what the Children of the Forest sang in their caves and treetops. The tongue of the old gods and the ones who were before them and the ones who were to come. Finally, he came to a stop. It was done. The deed was done, the bargain kept. The ritual closed.

  
Brynden made to get to his feet, then hesitated a moment. After what seemed a brief debate with himself, he knelt again. The words he spoke now was more common, though not of a tongue heard on this side of the Wall. He was not certain he had time for this, but that was one thing the Bloodraven had in common with Lannisters. He would always pay his debts.

  
Besides, it would never do for one who chose the old gods to disregard the debt they held most sacred of all, the Life Debt. As the greenseer chanted, the deserted Throne Room seemed to change, subtly enough that the gurds posted outside it’s heavy doors noticed nothing. The dragon skulls n the walls and the hulking Throne seemed to be listening. Waiting.

  
The eye sockets of the mounted skulls no longer seemed so dark or empty.

The glow of long dead flames was building in them, slowly but surely. They breathed unseen flames, breathed life, into the dragon lord who lay dying. The fire of the dragons, the gods of old Valyria, sung to flame by the greenseer’s chant, flowed to replace the life force those who belonged to Cold Winter had devoured.

For what is life, after all, but warmth and light and fire?

  
………………………………………………

  
Maekar was not sure how long he had lain upon the cold floor of the dungeons before he was able to realize it was not ice, but merely stone. Bloodsoaked stone. He could hear someone whimpering, sounding like an animal in pain. Or was it a garbled prayer whose words he could not make out?

The Targaryen made no attempt to try and make sense of what had happened. His ordered, logical mind had had more than it could take. He would leave thinking for later.  
The first thing he saw as he sat up shakily was the corpse of a knight. Ser Beronn. Any lingering hopes that the crazy images in his mind were merely feverwrought fled.

The other knight, the boy, was the one making the whimpering sound, moaning for Mother’s Mercy. He would be of little use right now, though it was clear that he had no injuries. But nor did the dead knight…..Maekar’s battle-trained eyes took in every detail of his surroundings in a swift glance. What he saw was not reassuring.

  
Had Daeron been brought to the Fourth level as it was now, with all the veils ripped away, he would have lost what remained of his mind. The place screamed out to any who could See. Fortunately for him, Maekar’s valyrian heritage was literally only skin deep. He had no gift of the Sight like his son, or the deeper magic of his brother, and saw only with mortal eyes. That was bad enough.

  
The runes.

Runes carved into the stone floor, runes that brimmed over with blood. A young boy’s corpse that lay, it’s hand lying in the bloodrune, the body as snow white as Brynden’s, but not made thus by nature. More whose significance Maekar knew not enough to interpret, and was not sure he wanted to know. But what drew his eyes was the scroll upon the ornately carved weirwood table.

In one long stride, he was there.

Yes.

He hadnot been mistaken as to the handwriting.

  
……………………………….

  
How the hell do you explain to a bunch of gibbering courtiers that the reason you disappeared in the middle of the crisis you were supposed to handle was that you got signed up for a trip beyond the Wall? Lord Barclay looked like he was talking to a ghost. Who knows, maybe he thought he was. Definitely within his intellectual capacity to get to that conclusion. Maekar brushed past him.

  
The Grandmaester took one look at the prince’s expression and decided not to risk asking where he had been.

“My lord, this time I do have good tidings to give” the old fool sounded more pompous than Maekar currently felt like tolerating, but the smugness was a good thing, surely. “We have finally managed to concoct the cure for the dread plague. The tide has already turned.”

  
“Prince Baelor. Is he…”

“ For a while we had despaired of his life, my lord” The grandmaester paused a moment, as if for dramatic effect. “But we were in time with the cure. Just in time. The fever has broken. He is no longer in any danger.”

  
The grandmaester did not consider it necessary to mention that he had not dared to give the actual dosage to the prince. The potion contained as an ingredient some quantity of the Sweetsleep herb, and he had feared the actual dosage of the potion would contain too much of it for the royal patient’s fever weakened body to withstand. However, he supposed, it was of no matter now, as the potion had proved effective enough even in the very diluted state.

  
……………………………….

  
“Typical of Brynden, you have to admit”

Maekar frowned.

“What, unleashing a plague on the city as part of some demonic sacrifice? I should have hoped that was not typical of anyone.”

Baelor smiled.He still looked a little pale, but other than that, there was little trace of the illness that had brought him so near to the Stranger's grasp.

“I meant the letter he left. Quite matter of fact and detailed. With no trace of apology or regret. In his view, he did what he had to do.”

“And he may do it again.”

  
Maekar was plainly trying not to be too obviously terrified by that possibility. They had of course set men to the task of tracking down the fugitive, but neither had much hope of success there. When someone like Bloodraven chose to disappear, he did it thoroughly.

Baelor once more scanned the letter, as if hoping it would reveal some clue which they had missed so long.

_"Maekar_

  
_I am assuming you would be the one to find this. At least, you were alive last I checked, and you are too stubborn to yield to the Stranger easily. Don’t waste your time trying to chase me down. An unplanned jaunt beyond the Wall can be exhausting; by the time you recover enough strength to read this, I will be long gone._

  
_If Baelor survives (I certainly hope he will – Aerys lacks the strength and you lack the imagination to deal with what is coming) tell him that he did succeed in saving his people. I am not sure what would happen to those already infected, but the course of the plague is arrested. No more victims shall it claim. But all the same, we only won a battle, not the war. The war maynot even reach the crisis point in your lifetimes. But it has begun._

  
_Now, the explanations. You are no doubt wondering whether you hallucinated it all. No. You did not. It was not happening in the layer of the world that you call ‘reality,’ but it was real all the same. Real enough to kill that knight who got pulled in with you. Real enough to have nearly killed the rest of us, as well._

  
_The accessories you find in my sanctum no doubt disturbs you. I don’t have the time nor inclination to give a lengthy explanation, so just take it as you would take the sight of a corpse strewn battlefield. Disturbing? Oh, yes. But necessary? Yes._

  
_To get to the matter at hand – the Summer Sickness is not a sickness at all. It was a blood sacrifice. I sensed the old Heart of Winter pulsing to awareness, and I sought to soothe it back to sleep. You know the old tales well enough. Only life can pay for life. The bloodmages of Old Valyria knew that. It was a sacrifice of much the same sort that brought down the Doom._

  
_They chose the Doom, for the other choice was too terrible to contemplate. They bound the Winter with the blood that was fire. Mine was an attempt of the same, though in a less spectacular level. No fiery Doom to be called forth from the earth, but a quieter, slower death. I intended to bind the Night King and through him the White Walkers to my will by the blood I fed them. As you saw, it did not go according to plan._

  
_The White Walkers were seeking a way through the Wall, and considering what the Night Watch has become, they would have found that way. I had little hope of convincing the Small Council of danger from what they considered old women’s tales. So I acted on my own, and to the best of my ability._

  
_A smaller scale re enactment of Valyria’s blood sacrifice that strengthened the Wall against the last assault launched upon it. A certain number of lives – royal, noble and common- in exchange for a temporary truce. Years in which we could prepare to meet their inevitable attack. I chose to buy time._

  
_But unlike those of Valyria, I had no brother-mages to stand beside me and pour their will with mine. I believed my own power would be enough. It wasn’t. I was overwhelmed. Believe me when I say I had no intention of giving them kingsblood. I had planned out in advance who all of the high born I could give them – merely a question of usefulness. That list was not adhered to._

  
_Once Baelor fell ill, it was clear that my control over the plague had been lost. They had grown stronger than I expected, and - this is important- they had one of their own among us. One who gave them a toehold upon our world. A living man and one of Dragonsblood. I am bound not to name him, and dare not give you further hints as to his identity._

  
_As for what happened in the battle we were just through- it seems the magic of Old Valyria still lingers. The Night King is not gone – don’t fool yourself into believing that. But the assault upon him, at the very heart of his power, has weakened him and his people considerably. If I am not much mistaken, we have indeed won time, and at the cost of far fewer lives than were meant. It will take them time, perhaps many generations, till they recover enough for another attack on the Wall._

  
_Remember the Watch. The Watch is our only shield._

  
_The gods be with you._

  
_Brynden Bloodraven of House Targaeryn."_

“The Night Watch.”Baelor sighed. “Rebuilding it is going to take more than three generations at best.” “Let us hope Bloodraven’s predictions are more accurate on that count. We need time.”

  
Of course, no mention was made in the Small Council meetings of Others. That really would not be a smart move, especially coming from a royal family that was a coin toss away from madness. The wildlings provided a convenient excuse. Even the king himself knew nothing of the true reason his sons had taken a sudden interest in the Nightwatch.

It would take time. And only time would tell whether it would be enough.

.............................................................................

Some maesters argue that the Great Spring Sickness should not be called by the epithet ‘great’ at all. The death toll may seem pretty impressive, but it was minuscule compared to the toll extracted by other epidemics to ravage the land.

The maesters countering this view opine that this plague had reigned only for less than a week, and considering the number of deaths per day, it ranked high enough on any scale. Besides, no one was sure how/where it originated from, nor what exactly caused it to retreat as sudden as it had emerged. The potion concocted by the grandmaester and assistants had no doubt been responsible in part, but only in part.

The disease had vanished too swiftly for the escape to be attributed to purely medical measures. Nor could any one guarantee it would not re emerge in the coming years, perhaps in a deadlier form.

  
Of course, rumors concerning the mysterious plague abounded among the smallfolk, and even among the more superstitious high born. The most prevalent rumor, and the most scandalous one, connected the Master of Whisperers, lord Bloodraven, to the plague.

It was whispered that the disease and the sorcerer had vanished simultaneously, that he had unleashed the illness to kill the princes and seize power for himself. In vain was it pointed out that he may himself had fallen victim to the disease and been immolated in one of the anonymous mass graves before the body could be properly identified. After all, he had never been particularly robust.

The people needed a reason, a scapegoat, and the strange spymaster proved a convenient one.


End file.
